


Nothing Wagered

by whatsherface



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arm Wrestling, Early Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Owain's girlfriend is a badass, and it totally turns him on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsherface/pseuds/whatsherface
Summary: On an evening off, Cassandra challenges Cullen to an arm wrestling match. It's a terrible idea, until it's not.A fluffy one-shot. Early relationship.





	Nothing Wagered

**Author's Note:**

> Working on the next chapter of Clean Burn. In the meantime, have some fluff! <3

She should never have agreed to this. 

Cullen shifted in the seat across the table and carefully rolled his sleeve past his elbow. 

Cassandra huffed and did the same, pushing up the fabric of her tunic and folding it in place with a deft twist. 

_A terrible idea._

She blamed the wine, glaring at the cup beside her hand. Then she reconsidered and emptied the contents in one sweet, searing gulp. She put the cup down a little too hard. The noise of the tavern buzzed around her. She could hear Bull and Sera fanning the flames. _Instigators._

They had just returned from a harrowing tour on the Storm Coast, clearing Red Templar camps and putting down a dragon. Bloody, messy work. They were all a little drunk, perhaps. On victory, on ale and relief. 

_Hands hit the table with a thump, and a cheer went up among the soldiers._

_“Anyone else? Anyone dare to challenge our good Ser Cullen? Great Commander of the Inquisition? The Lion of Skyhold?”_

_Bony fingers wrapped around her wrist, and then her hand was in the air._

_“SERA!” she hissed, wrenching her arm away, too late._

_“Wha-at? You gonna let Cully get away with that Lion shite? Like to see a woman put him in his place.”_

_“Do it yourself.”_

_“Me?” Sera cackled, curling her arm and prodding the bicep. “Have you seen these?”_

_“Ugh.” She looked at the others. Blackwall discovered something very interesting at the bottom of his mug. Bull shrugged his bandaged right arm, swinging it in the sling tied across his shoulders._

_“Sorry, Cass. Healer’s orders. Or you know I would.”_

_They were already chanting her name._

_“Come on, Seeker. You afraid Curly’s going to beat you? I thought Seekers always trumped Templars.”_

Varric sat at the next table over, collecting coin and scratching out bets on a piece of parchment. His face was flush with enthusiasm. _The nerve._ She glared in his direction, but he was too busy to notice. 

There was no turning back now. She sighed and flexed her shoulders. Cullen shot her an apologetic smile. He, too, had been goaded into this, but his reluctance was tempered by drink and the excitement of the crowd, most of whom were his own men. 

_Let’s get this over with._ He offered his hand, and she took it, planting her elbow on the table. 

A hush fell over the tavern before they could begin. She froze, turning her attention to the door, where the Inquisitor had entered flanked by Dorian and Althea, his fellow mages. Trevelyan looked a little worse for wear, his coat hanging open and his hair a mess. He ran a hand through it now and swept the scene with sharp eyes. 

Color rose in her face, so she frowned. Of all the things to be caught at... Would he disapprove? Find her intimidating? Or laugh at her, for engaging in something so foolish?

The crowd parted for him as he crossed to Varric. He fished in his pocket and drew out a leather pouch that landed on the table with a heavy clink. 

“On the lady,” he declared, with a slight jerk of his head. He met her eyes with a smirk on his lips. 

Her disgusted sound was lost in the roar of the crowd as it crescendoed anew. She rolled her eyes, but the tiniest of smiles now played at the corner of her mouth. If she hadn’t cared about winning this silly contest before, she did now. 

She set her jaw and turned back to Cullen, adjusting her grip on his hand. Muscle, tendon, bone. His was a warrior’s hand, rough and calloused, shaped over years of practice with sword and shield. Strength forged in battle, from discipline and necessity. Like hers. 

He went easy at first, she could tell. Testing, perhaps, not wanting to embarrass her. That was like him. But men were always underestimating her. Even Cullen, who was better than most. 

He should have known better. 

By the time he got serious, it was too late. She pressed her advantage, and he grunted as the back of his hand hit the table. The tavern erupted with sound. 

No one was louder than the Inquisitor, who punched his fist in the air before hauling her to her feet for a hard, breath-stealing kiss. She gripped his coat and kissed him back, closed her eyes and let it carry her away. Was that the crowd growing louder, or the rush of blood in her ears? She didn't care. He tasted like whiskey. He smelled like magic. 

His grin was ridiculous but infectious. Her face almost hurt from smiling. Suddenly, she wanted to be anywhere else. With him. And it seemed he felt the same. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and steered them toward the door. She twisted her fingers in his and laced them tight. Muscle, tendon, bone. 

And fire. 

Fire made flesh.

“What about your winnings?” Varric called to their backs. 

Owain’s eyes never left hers. “Buy a round for the Inquisition,” he replied over his shoulder. The heat in his look spread warmth through her chest. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Her cheeks positively burned now. Perhaps it was not so terrible after all.


End file.
